


Oh, Fair Knight

by shortcircuitify



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blindness, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Intrigue, Knights - Freeform, Politics, Princes & Princesses, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7705903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the King of Vengerberg's death, Yennefer is next in line to take the throne. Except, she must choose a husband before she will be allowed to lift her Kingdom from poverty. With a medaling adviser, a pompous Princess, and a reluctant Witcher, there is sure to be problems.<br/>Medieval Alternate Universe, ships abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom of grand elegance and stature, there lived a humble and tired King. The King came into his power when he was no older than twenty summers and not a bone in his body ready to rule over a small country. Spoiled by his mother and neglected by his father, he nay listened to his advisors and skipped Council in favor of cheap prostitutes and expensive wine. He was a brat that had few friends and many enemies that stayed close to him, looking for favor and recognition and land and power vicariously.

Vengerberg was rich and mighty and he had no cares in the world asides his own pleasure. It was glorious, entwining him with the power of gods, mighty and all-consuming.

And then his mother left in the dead of night to parts unknown and his father's leniency towards the both of them had run short. He was violent and did not take no for an answer, and the soon-to-be King dreamt of his father killing his mother in the night and burying it with his childhood.

He still did not learn about politics because of the fear gripping his heart, and then his father was dead and his coronation passed over his head before he could understand its meaning and he felt so much older in his bones that he thought his own heart would fail him and send him to an early grave. He would be reunited with his mother at last.

But death never came, and a peasant girl he had a tryst with once upon a time came to him with her belly full of life and the future. They were wed and he sunk into his work, keeping snake Councilmen away from his aching back and buoying Vengerberg as well as he could. Trade decreased and the King dressed as poorly as the servants did. The Kingdom was falling and he had a beautiful daughter with thick hair and lilac eyes but it did not stop his greying hairs or the creaks in his bones.

The peasant girl turned Queen passed in the night, her body weak and small.

He traded a loyal wife for a distant daughter that he had no time for, who grew up with finery when the Kingdom knew none, when her father was stuck at his desk into the late hours of the night because he wanted to give her the best life possible, and did not see between the creases that history was rewriting itself until he saw his sweet Yennefer in court, a bard at her beck and call and men grasping at her arms and legs and her hands full of sweet grapes and aged wine.

And in that moment he saw himself and saw the ruin that would become of her when he passed and she was stuck with a dying Kingdom on her shoulders. She would be spoiled and power-hungry and she would drive herself into the ground, wishing that she could reverse time and make it right again.

His eyes grew weary and heart weak.

He met with his daughter's advisor – the one she neglected almost daily in pursuit of physical luxuries – and together they signed a contract and marked it for the day of his death. He would condemn his daughter – his free, wild, sweet Yennefer – to pain in order to save the Kingdom he loved. It would be a worthy cause, he commended himself.

And when the years passed and Yennefer was just passed twenty-fours summers old, and he lay dying on his death bed from worry and anxiety, she wept a tear for the father that never was. Tears were pouring down his own cheeks, but he knew she would not feel his loss with the crown heavy upon her head. He passed peacefully and all that was left was Yennefer of Vengerberg.

Yennefer paced the length of her study, and then back again. They would not let her see her father as his life passed from his body – he had become violent and neurotic in his final moments, and once the healers had sedated him they had told her he would not be waking again. There was no need for her to be there as they prepared his body for the funeral.

She said her final goodbyes and then left, running off to her study and shutting the door behind her. She blinked her eyes and then shuffled through the papers littering her desk. She paced, biting her nails and digging into her lip.

She felt conflicted and nervous. This was the moment she was waiting for, was it not? She would be Queen, rule a Kingdom and with it hold its power and wealth. Live in luxury and finery all her life, making Vengerberg great again, as her grandfather once did. She was one step closer and yet her stomach roiled uncomfortably. She had all of the contracts prepared. She would just need Avallac'h to sign in place of her father and she would…

She stood in front of her desk, biting her lip. A set of footsteps alerted her to another's presence, and there before her stood her advisor Avallac'h. Confidant to the King and now to his daughter.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well?" He replied, "Your father's funeral will be held tomorrow at sundown."

"Ah," she began pacing again. She stopped, and then started again. She might have been confident and rebellious, but she would not disrespect her father's death with asking Avallac'h for his signature.

"If you are worried about your coronation…" he knew her too well and she hated it a little bit, "You need not fear. It will probably not happen for a few months yet, giving you plenty of time to prepare a speech," she could hear the sarcasm dripping from his words.

She glared at him, "Isn't that a bit too late? It should be sooner, 'else the Council become blood-hungry and try to steal the throne as their own," she almost hissed.

"Oh, so you did pay attention to some of my lessons. That is always good to hear," Avallac'h smirked, "And like I said, you need not worry. The Coronation will not happen for a few months, at least."

Yennefer was nothing if not impatient. She crossed her arms and stared at the elf before her, trying to reign in her temper. It would not do for Vengerberg's new Queen to murder in cold blood, "And why must it take so long? I have the papers prepared, all you need to do is –"

Avallac'h pulled out his own piece of vellum, handing it to her. She took it slowly, unrolled, and stared at her father's neat cursive. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head once she had finished the letter, or missive, or whatever the hell it was. Now she was ready to send Avallac'h to his next plane of existence and she was hopeful that it would not be pleasant.

"What is the meaning of this? You cannot be serious!" She cried, sounding like the petulant child Avallac'h knew her to be.

"I know you can read, Yennefer, so you know exactly what it means. You are to be wed before you take the throne, as per your father's instructions," he frowned thoughtfully, "And don't try to go destroying the paper either, if you already have some half-cooked plot stewing in that thick skull of yours. The missive has already been sent to the Councilmen, so unless you want a coup on your hands for undermining his late Majesty's word, I would advise against it."

"Oh, _shut up,"_ she crumped the piece of parchment in her hand, "Why? Why must I wed to become Queen, of all things? That is the most idiotic rule I have ever heard in my life."

Avallac'h advanced on her hunched form slowly, eyes cool and calm and it chilled her bones, "Do you know the purpose of taxes, Yennefer? Do you know how they are collected and distributed? Or perhaps, do you know how to run a Council meeting, what should be discussed and what is considered superfluous?" She flapped her mouth uselessly, her cheeks coloring a muddy red, "Exactly. We cannot have a Queen ruling on the throne who does not know how to rule a Kingdom."

"But that's why I have you, is it not? Why do I need a _bloody_ husband?"

"It would look horrible if I whispered in your ear every time you needed help with something! Do you not remember how nobility gossip? I would have my head hung for manipulating the new Queen of the Kingdom. A King is a much more legitimate head of government," Avallac'h replied, voice knowledgeable but also undeniably impudent.

Yennefer felt the rage bubbling inside her gut, and slammed her fist down against her desk. It made a resounding _thump_ in the sudden quiet of the room.

"Then why do you not marry me? We would make a great team," her voice was light but her shoulders were still hunched in anger and defeat. Avallac'h almost smirked, but he did not want to be disemboweled.

"Thank you for such a kind offer, but I must refuse," he mockingly bowed, "Now, if you are done with your temper tantrum, there are some options for you," her piercing violet gaze met his own eyes. Even he had to admit, Yennefer was a sight to behold in her anger, "I could, of course, pick for you who I think would be the best suitable candidate for your marriage, out of the available princes or widowed Kings from the other Kingdoms. Or, you could yourself find someone who you would prefer to rule with you – of nobility, mind you. We don't need another dunce ruling this Kingdom alongside you."

Yennefer crossed her arms again. She needed a long smoke and some wine to sort out the muddled mess in her head. As soon as Avallac'h would be done talking to her, she would escape through the castle and find the nearest pub to wallow in.

"And what if I find someone I like that is a peasant?" She cringed at her own words. She knew that would never be an option, she had _standards_ of course, but she felt the walls of her life closing in on her and defiance was the best thing she had to win some control.

Avallac'h chuckled, "Even though we both know that won't happen, then take him as a consort if you must. No one said you must care for your husband."

Her shoulders drooped slightly. Perhaps she was promiscuous and preferred pretty faces over depth and personality, but if she did have to marry she would prefer it to be for love. But if she had to choose between ruling her Kingdom, making it wide and wonderful and powerful under her omnipotent gaze, and marrying a man she loved, she would choose her Kingdom. She was more her father than she would ever understand.

"I will choose my own husband."

"Perfect. I will send out a letter to all Kingdoms with available bachelors, and they can visit you here to court you and win your hand. And before you go sulking to the pub," Yennefer blinked up at him, eyes owlish at already being caught before even leaving her study. Avallac'h smiled sardonically, " _Do_ remember that you are still interment head of government, so maybe read a book or two on your way out."

He left with a flourished bow, and before Yennefer 'accidently' rung a knight's neck, she pulled a thick, wool cape over her shoulders and made to exit the castle through one of the hidden passageways she so loved. Sneaking was one of her specialties and she used it to her full ability to get as much alcohol into her body as she could before she passed out or retched.

She needed to get drunk as fast as possible, and forget about Avallac'h and her dead father and the strange man she would be sharing her bed with in the probably-near future.


	2. Chapter 2

The Kingdom of Rivia was a small, albeit powerful, force. Landlocked and divided among its finest knights, the Kings and Queens of Rivia for generations bred an army that would make the largest of kingdoms tremble in their pantaloons.

Nobles were few and far between in the Northern Kingdom, used mostly for placeholders over counties and symbols of good faith when sent to form alliances. The true power was held within the grasp of the Queen and her loyal knights. Bred from their youth, they were competent in politics, swordplay, and loyalty to the head of state.

However, not all were simple knights to fit into the mould the Queen would manipulate.

With the strength of Rivia's army and military prowess, they had alliances with all its surrounding Kingdoms, securing safety and resources for the tiny Kingdom. Not necessarily wealthy, the citizens of Rivia had prosperous and generally happy lives.

That, of course, did not mean there were no enemies threatening the Queen. Assassination, poison, and coup attempts happened at least once per the changing of the seasons. That also meant that the Queen was prepared for such attempts.

The Knights that were not bred for courts or blind obedience were instead borne as Witchers. Wild, rowdy, and smart, these men instead were made for protection and subterfuge. With an in-depth knowledge of politics and culture, and even deadlier knowledge with a blade, they lived the lives of simple sword-sells. Living among the commoners, they listened and tracked the people's distrust and appreciation of Rivia's government, keeping the Queen in check lest the people suffer under her hand.

They travelled to Kingdoms surrounding, learning their secrets and politics as well.

That also entailed unwavering trust and favor to the Queen, for what commoner would so easily have access to their ruler to usurp the throne? None, and so the Witchers have remain secreted under their guise.

A council of sorts; the eyes and ear of the Queen, making swift death happen to those spying in her Kingdom or already plotting her death from their own. Making sure the Queen herself did not grow blood-thirsty from power. All anonymous, and all hidden, the only ones they bowed to the people, and the only one to know of their existence the Queen.

Avallac'h smirked, closing the missive he received from the Queen of Rivia. Perhaps, the Queen was not the _only_ one to know of their existence.

…

**/**

Geralt took a swig of his ale, practically slamming his mug into the table, a sneer plastered across his face. If looks could kill, he was certain Lambert would have murdered the serving wench by now, the way he was boring holes into her as she placed another round down onto the tavern table.

"Is the Queen _fucking_ serious with this shit?" he yelled over the din of the busy establishment, his voice ringing in Geralt's head. Maybe he had too much to drink already.

He pushed the newly-filled glass away from himself – he still had to make sure Ciri was fine for the night before going to bed, no sense going home drunk.

Eskel leafed the piece of vellum they had each received that morning from the King between his fingers, reading and re-reading the words, as if trying to decipher a great mystery behind them. He almost looked sad, Geralt noted.

"It's… odd," the Witcher finally conceded, placing the parchment carefully back into his breast pocket, away from prying eyes.

"It's stupid, that's what it is," Lambert slurred, his new cup already drained of alcohol, "Why the hell would the Queen ever tell _anyone_ about us? Allow us to be invited to this… joke? Especially a whole fucking Kingdom? Isn't that what we're supposed to be - a secret? Last I checked, that means you don't display us for slaughter, like some pigs."

Eskel raised his eyebrow, staring incredulously at the man beside him, "She didn't tell the _entire_ Kingdom. I doubt she told Vengerberg about us at all. She'd just tell them the usual lie. Lesser nobles, owning a fair amount of land, yaddah yaddah. In that way, it makes sense we would be invited for this… what is this? Coming of age? Coronation?"

Geralt rubbed a tired palm over his face, and snorted, "Twenty-four summers is a bit old for a coming of age."

"How would _she_ know any better? Yennefer of Vengerberg is about as dumb as they get," Lambert chimed in, "She probably doesn't even understand what marriage is, or that she's supposed to _be_ married at all. She probably thinks this ball is some sort of… game."

Geralt sighed, a weary sound, and turned back to Eskel. Out of his companions, Eskel was the one he always turned to when things were going to get rough, "Do we have to do this?"

Eskel took a sip if his ale, "If we don't want to be beheaded for treason, I suppose we do. After all, what better way to secure Vengerberg under the Queen's grasp than to have one of us as its King? No easier way to spy on it than that, I tell you."

"Vengerberg isn't even all that great," Lambert pouted, and now Geralt knew he was drunk, "It's been declining for ages. Not a piece of gold or wheat or _shit_ to come out of that place in years."

"Can we just kill her?" Geralt added, only joking slightly.

This whole idea was absurd to him, and he was surprised they were still talking about it. Attending to Vengerberg to potentially try and win the Princess's hand? Bullocks. There was nothing in the code of the Witcher that said anything about arranged marriages and becoming King to a spoiled brat. Yennefer's reputation superseded her father in the extravagant and reckless way she lived.

Living life in the shadows, owning his own house, enjoying nights at the tavern, _that_ was the life Geralt enjoyed. A normal, simple life. And he prayed to all the gods above that he wouldn't be the one chosen to be the next King of Vengerberg.

"If you want an army of angry sorceresses on your ass, be my guest," Eskel chuckled morbidly.

If there was one thing Vengerberg was still famous for – other than its frivolous rulers – was its ability to harness magick, and the way they used it in their own military system in the form of sorceresses. If Geralt had to guess, that was the only thing keeping its borders standing against the threat of its neighbours.

Lambert made a long noise of understanding, "They do have those, don't they? No wonder the King wants Vengerberg – with them and the Knights, Rivia would have no enemies at all. They'd all just be… obliterated. Huh," he thought about it a moment, staring dumbly into space.

"Exactly," Eskel added.

"I can't believe we're still talking about this," Geralt groaned, re-thinking his decision to quit drinking for the night.

Then he thought of Ciri's pale face, and the temptation was gone. He burrowed his face into his hands, feeling a headache beginning to pound in the back of his head.

"Well, you better. More likely than not we'll have council with the Queen, and all be off for Vengerberg within the month. Two, if we're lucky."

Geralt picked his head up at that, his eyes wide in horror, "But Ciri –"

Lambert patted him on the back mockingly, "Better start thinking of whose gonna take care of her in your absence now, before you have to leave and she's here all by herself," his tone had too much satisfaction in it, and Geralt felt the immense need to punch him in the face.

"Glad to know you take great pleasure knowing I'll be leaving my ward for an unspecified amount of time," he hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously at his more liberal Witcher brother.

Lambert sank his face into Geralt's still full mug, "Yeah, well, you're not the only one caught between a rock and a hard place. It's nice to share the pain," he shot back venomously, and quite over-dramatically.

Eskel groaned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"If this is still because Keira of Angren wouldn't sleep with y-"

Lambert slammed his fist against the table, "It's not about that!" he objected, his upper lip pulled until his teeth were visible, like a rabid dog. His tell, Geralt noted. He was lying, and Geralt would be surprised if Eskel also didn't notice the obvious signs.

"You can quit lying now. If this is still because Keira wouldn't sleep with you," Eskel reiterated calmly, waving his hand in the air nonchalantly, "then just drop it. You'll find another wench to bed in no time."

"You don't understand – it's only because she thought I was some 'dirty peasant' that I was so cruelly rejected. If she really knew who I was, I would have already conquered her," he moped, "And now I might be chosen to be married to an imbecile."

Geralt smacked Lambert in the back of the head, the contact and Lambert's cry of pain both satisfying the throbbing ache in the pit of his stomach over this whole situation.

"Either way, Yennefer chooses who she marries," Eskel added, "And I'm not so certain you will be her top candidate."

" _What_?"

"Did you even read the letter?"

"Not closely."

"Fuck," Geralt whispered, "Means the Queen will want us to woo her as well."

"Fuck," Lambert repeated, more despondent than before.

"Maybe not. The Queen has other ways of learning the magick of sorceresses, we do not necessarily have to become King of Vengerberg," Eskel surmised, "Trading the secret of Witchers for the secret of sorceresses might do."

"More of a bonus if we do, then?" Geralt raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Eskel shrugged, "No way in knowing until we meet her in council, but that would be my best bet. Doesn't mean we can be complete assholes to her, either, lest we ruin our relationship with Vengerberg permanently."

"Hear that, White Wolf? _Do not be mean to Her Royal Majesty_ ," Lambert mocked, his voice slow and drawn out as if Geralt was ill of mind.

He snatched back his mug, still half full, and took a long, satisfying drink, feeling the edges of his mind dull pleasantly, his restraint worn thin, "Shut your mouth," he growled to Lambert, tired of his games for the night.

"What of you, Eskie? Seem pretty calm about all of this," Lambert eyed the third Witcher suspiciously, to which he smirked.

"I have some old connections in Vengerberg. It wouldn't hurt to visit them again," his eyes suddenly clouded over, as if he was lost in a memory from long ago.

He absently took a sip of his ale, his eyes looking sad and longing. Geralt watched him a moment. Eskel was always stoic and distant, cool and calculating if necessary, with an even head on his shoulders. This new looked surprised him, and he wondered what sort of connections Eskel was looking forward to.

All he knew was that this trip was going to be torture, and he would do anything in his power to stay right here in Rivia. The threat of marriage to a woman known for her excessive need of pleasure sounded like the worst sort of nightmare to Geralt – the freedom of travelling and the secret identity that kept him anonymous all hanging in the balance.

He knew better than imagining this would be a marriage of love, or even one of mutual respect or understanding. Those rarely happened, and this was not the scenario the Princess of Vengerberg had found herself in.

Looking into the bottom of his almost empty mug, he stared at his distorted reflection, swirling and looking back at him, tired and forlorn. He sighed, raising the mug in the air before him.

"To us, brothers. May we survive this ordeal, as we have before, and as we will again," he toasted, Eskel and Lambert joining in and draining the rest of their drinks.

…

**/**

Queen Meve sat before her loyal Witchers, her back straight and neck held regally long. The throne rose behind her, two crows joining together in a swirl of black above her head. Geralt lifted himself from his low bow, taking a seat at the small, round table set before her Majesty.

He swallowed thickly, taking the cup of cool tea a servant passing him offered. He took a small sip, trying to calm the ache in his stomach once again, the thought of being married off to a spoilt Princess no more appealing in the light of day than it was the previous night.

And if his Queen saw fit for him to seduce said Princess to gain Vengerberg's favor, then he would simply have to smile, bow, and be off to slithering into Yennefer's bed.

Queen Meve smiled, obvious excitement written in the way she wrung her hands together, no doubt elated at her newest scheme to make Rivia an even more formidable force. The usual was spoken about – taxes, the happiness of the commoners, how the nobility were faring.

Geralt's mind was elsewhere, thinking about if Ciri was comfortable and if the fire he had stoked that morning would hold until the evening. He glanced over to Lambert and Eskel – absolutely irritated and mildly calm, respectively. Vesemir was, by no surprise, already asleep, and Geralt was surprised that he wasn't snoring yet.

In all honesty, he was surprised Vesemir was still a Witcher at all, but if the stories he loved to spew on about so much were at least half-true, then he was certainly the most knowledgeable of them all. If only he could stay awake to _use_ that knowledge.

Finally finishing off the last of the business on their agenda, Queen Meve cleared her throat nervously. Geralt played with the charm in his hand – the small head of a wolf – also feeling his nerves get the better of him, though he tried to hide it.

"Now, onto the next order of business," she declared primly, "As you all know, you have all received letters the previous morn detailing a kind offer from the de-facto ruler of Vengerberg, asking you all to attend to her castle as she chooses a husband to rule by her side."

Geralt heard Lambert practically growl beside him, and his own eyes narrowed at the Queen's obvious excitement.

"For us, this will be a splendid political move if one of you were to receive the offer of Kingship. Vengerberg has been declining as of late, but with our well-placed alliances and resources we can bring the Kingdom back some semblance of trade so that its citizens may prosper. Not to its former glory, of course, but if Princess Yennefer were to choose us she would not suffer for it," Meve elaborated, the knot in Geralt's stomach tightening.

" _And_ we learn the secret behind their renowned sorceresses, increasing our own military power," Vesemir interjected, trying to hide a yawn behind his hand while also letting out a hearty laugh.

Queen Meve smiled, the dimples in her cheeks highlighted by the red in her cheeks, "Exactly. Of course, all of this would be simpler if Yennefer's ward and advisor were the one choosing her husband. We have been in correspondence, and Avallac'h is quite enthused knowing that Rivia's _nobility_ ," she emphasized the word, "Would be willing to send their finest bachelors."

Lambert scoffed, "And now Yennefer gets to choose."

"Yes, exactly."

"Are any of the actual nobility or knights receiving the same invitation?" Geralt asked, his voice raspy and sharp.

"Yes," Queen Meve replied, "But, I would prefer one of you over any of them. And it should be obvious why," her eyes flitted to Lambert before he could start grousing over her words, "For you are all more trained, skilled, and politically inclined. A perfect fit for King. Although this union obviously benefits us, there is no need to leave Vengerberg to rot. An eye and ear there will always be beneficial, especially to its people," and then, in almost a whisper, "If the rumors about the Princess are anything to go by."

"Ah, the perfect position to gain information about Vengerberg and its few remaining ties to other Kingdoms. Is seduction also in our plans?" Eskel asked, slightly amused, as if this was more a game of chess than the decision of their future.

Queen Meve wrung her hands once more, but this time she licked her lips nervously, Geralt noted.

"At the end of all of this it will be Yennefer's decision as to who she will choose as King. If any of you, however, wish to flirt and seduce, I will not be abject. I am aware you all have the skills for it," she tried hiding the smirk threatening her lips, but Geralt saw it anyway.

Her eyes flickered over to Lambert once more, and Eskel had to bite his lip to keep his chuckle for escaping. Sure, Lambert may have tried to sleep with every woman in Rivia at some point _including_ the Queen, but Geralt was certain that if, on the other hand, Eskel had any interest in bedding random women, he would already have the Kingdom under his belt.

Cheeky Queen, he mused. Her husband may have already passed, and her son away to military training in Scala, but Queen Meve never lost any of the vivacity Geralt had seen the first time he met her.

He sighed. Enthusiastic Queens were always the most dangerous, besides spoiled ones.

"When do we leave?" He asked.

Her eyes lit up at his question, as if disbelieving that out of the four Witchers to serve her, Geralt was the first to tentatively accept her proposal, "In one month's time. The conference begins in two months and it is always recommended to get comfortable in your new tidings." She nodded in self satisfaction.

Vesemir snorted, hiding it behind a violent cough and Geralt also had to hold back his laughter. The verse was famous among the four brothers, aware that it was their Queen's favorite saying – especially when she used it while visiting foreign Kings and nobles with loose tongues and loose locks to their bedroom doors.

"How long will we be away?" Geralt continued.

Meve pursed her lips, "I am… uncertain. It all depends on Her Majesty's fickleness, I suppose."

"Better pack for the year, then," Lambert groused.

That spelled trouble, Geralt knew. He had been gone from Ciri for months on end, but always with ample preparation and someone to watch over her while he was away. Ideally, that would be Eskel, if he was not away on his own reconnaissance mission, or someone he could pay with the small amount of money he collected on bounty jobs on the road. The life of a Witcher was not glamorous, and this uncertainty – with Eskel leaving as well – meant there was a slim chance he would even been remotely prepared to leave Ciri for who knew how long.

"I'll need someone to take care of Ciri while I'm gone," Geralt had not meant it, but a sombre tone seeped through with his words.

"I'll do it," Vesemir declared, cracking his back and sighing in relief at the same time, slumping back into his chair.

Eskel raised a skeptical eyebrow, "You're not joining us?"

"Bah! I'm too old to be a King. Besides, someone has to stay and watch over our fair Queen while you all go gallivanting into Yennefer's smallclothes."

Lambert let out a short, sharp laugh, "Fair enough, old man."

" _Someone,"_ Geralt growled, "Who I _know_ will take care of her. As you are aware, Queen, Eskel usually watches over my ward if I am away from the Kingdom, else I pay someone – a healer, ideally - to make sure she is fine while I am away. This, however, is too much speculation, and without enough gold to ensure her safety, I might have to withdraw from being a bachelor for Princess Yennefer."

"Well, then, I will simply pay for her care while you are away," Meve stated obliviously.

Geralt wondered sometimes how this Kingdom ran without the Witchers to make sure everything was up kept and in order. The Council was practically useless unless they were planning a military assault, and the Queen – however kind-hearted and ambitious – would hold no affect over her people without the four men in front of her.

Geralt scowled, "I don't take handouts, Majesty. Especially not from the Queen. Besides-"

"A missing fund that large would go noticed. Healer's services are not cheap, after all," Eskel pointed out, before Geralt began spewing on about honor and pride and circumstance.

"Yes," Queen Meve nodded her head, much more dissatisfied at this turn of events.

"I will, for her Majesty's sake, try my best by the end of this month to find some care for Ciri. If not, then I will have to forfeit the chance of King," Geralt bowed his head slightly, avoiding Lambert's piercing and obviously angry gaze.

He wasn't sure how _particularly_ hard he would try to find someone to watch over his surrogate daughter, but that was neither a problem nor a large concern to him. If he ended up staying right where he was, without having to leave for Vengerberg, all the better for it.

"Wish I had an orphan to take care of…" Lambert mumbled to himself, and Geralt tried to hide the smirk crossing his lips when he lifted his head once more.

Queen Meve studied him, trying to see the sincerity of his words written in his eyes. The pursing of her lips told him she was not completely satisfied with his reasoning, but she nodded her head to him nonetheless, accepting his decision.

"Thank you, fair Witchers, for your loyal council. We are adjourned for this morning," Meve recited, obviously more frustrated than she assumed she would be with her plan to unite with Vengerberg.

Geralt couldn't help the slight wince at thinking he was most likely the main source of her troubles.

"And to you, my Queen," the four Witchers replied, getting up from their seats and leaving the castle grounds via its secret passageways, so as not to be spotted by any servants or nobles.

Immediately upon entering town, Vesemir began walking towards the eastern quarter, where his home was situated.

"Going home to sleep, old man?" Eskel called over to the older Witcher, sarcasm lacing his words.

His only reply was a crude hand gesture that had Geralt chuckling lightly.

Turning to his companions, Eskel asked, "Drink?"

"It's noon," Geralt replied, although there was no real protest in his words.

"Perfect. Drink it is."

…

**/**

The sun was setting by the time Geralt had pulled himself away from the tavern, the lulling of alcohol in his veins making the dirt-ridden roads to his home seem fuzzy and warm in the glow of the sunset.

He stumbled slightly down familiar, trodden roads, the torches lit earlier in the evening acting as guides to make sure he arrived at home safely. A small home, but cozy, nestled into a corner of one of Rivia's more urban neighbourhoods beckoned to Geralt as he got closer and closer to it.

Fumbling with the key in his hand only slightly, he made his way inside, the heat from the still-burning hearth clearing his head slightly. He sighed, relieved that the fire had held for the whole day, meaning Ciri wouldn't have a cold fit in the middle of the night.

He stood still a moment, waiting to hear if Ciri was still up or if she was already asleep – one of her peaceful days.

No such luck. Geralt heard a weak cough from up the stairs, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Even after the many long years of his ward's illness, he still – perhaps some painful part of him – hoped that she would feel better one day.

He filled a pot with water and placed it over the burning coals and embers left in the hearth, turning his head to the low ceiling above him and the array of drying herbs strung from the ceiling.

Cough, no doubt she would be feeling a chill, too… That would mean to use –

An insistent knock rang out throughout the house, and Geralt turned his still slightly inebriating attention to the door, surprised to hear the sudden noise in the calm of night. It was probably just Eskel. Maybe he forgot his coinpurse at the tavern again…

The man at Geralt's door was much shorter than Eskel and had a hood pulled over his features. Geralt's eyes narrowed and his hand automatically reached for the dagger he kept in his breast pocket, pinning the man from approaching him any more with a blade to the neck.

The man raised his hands at his sides, a show of good faith, but Geralt wasn't buying it. If the man's slim frame meant anything, it was that he was at least part elf, and the elven had a penchant for magick.

"No need to be so alarmed, Geralt of Rivia," the voice was somewhat familiar, but Geralt couldn't make heads or tails of it in his current state, and it didn't really matter to him. A random stranger showing up at his house in the middle of the night, no matter the circumstance, spelled trouble.

"That just makes me _more_ concerned."

Lifting his hands above his head, the elf – Geralt noted – took off his hood, revealing striking pale, silver eyes. A hair of thick, silvery hair, and the tell-tales ears of an elf.

Geralt would recognize those eyes from anywhere. Cold and calculating and piercing – eyes he had spied on a multitude of times in the courts of Vengerberg when the King was alive and it still had enough recognition to make it notable. Back when the Princess was nothing but a myth, avoiding political affairs and sneaking through the shadows of taverns. Avallick – or something of the sort – long advisor to the royalty of Vengerberg.

"I know you. Azavala. But – wait," Geralt's mind kicked into a storm, but he could not shake off the snaking and shrouding confusion of his drunkenness, "I know you but then, how…?"

"Quite a home appointed for you, _Sir_ Geralt. Rivia certainly does not want its nobles to know the feeling of poverty, do they?" His tone had an ever-present mocking to it, condescending. Geralt frowned and straightened his back.

Queen Meve did say something about them posing as lesser nobles, right? A way to win the Princess of Vengerberg's heart – yes, now he was remembering, it was the reason he had so readily agreed to get smashed, and the thoughts made him want to retch.

He was probably here to check out the livestock, as it were. It made Geralt feel disgusted, propriety to a visiting dignitary be damned.

"We have more important concerns than to display the opulence of our Kingdom in such wasteful ways," he was proud he didn't slur heavily, "Now what do you want? As you can see, it's late and I would much rather –"

" _Avallac'h_ ," the elf corrected sharply, belatedly, Geralt noted even in his muddled state, "And-"

"Bless you."

" _And_ , I have a proposition for you, if you would be willing to hear it."

Geralt lowered the knife from the elf's neck, deigning it safe enough that he could enter without having his own throat slit.

Avallac'h watched the descending on the knife carefully, watching Geralt closely as they both entered the home. He sat himself down at the wobbly wooden table by the fireplace, removing his cloak and making himself comfortable, although that was not very much as his brow and nose crinkled in distaste at the somewhat dilapidated home.

Geralt snorted, "I see the Princess is not the only one with excessive tastes."

Avallac'h raised a delicate eyebrow, "And I know for a fact that Rivian nobility would not be seen within a hundred yards of this… _building."_

Geralt's eyes narrowed, "Not _all_ nobles."

Avallac'h smirked and Geralt wished he was just a little bit more drunk because he wouldn't have the moral obligation to not punch the elf in the face.

"You claim to know me. I think that is proof enough that you are more than _you_ claim to be."

 _Shit, that means…_ Geralt eyed the elf wearily, almost hostile, "Is that a threat? Blackmail?"

Avallac'h _tsked,_ "Not in the slightest, 'else Meve and I wouldn't have already discussed _it_."

Geralt's hands tightened into fists, and he wouldn't be surprised if he drew blood, "You already know?"

"Yes. About the Witchers, their purpose, all of the basics."

"For nothing in return."

"Oh I wouldn't say that," Avallac'h waved his hand nonchalantly, "Witchers are a fair trade for sorceresses, I would think."

The next time Council was called, Geralt would have a stern talk with Meve about keeping secrets from the only people she was not supposed to keep secrets from.

That meant she was serious about one of them becoming King. _Double shit._

"Then why the hell are we vying for Yennefer's hand?"

"A secret for a secret is one thing – a Kingdom for a Kingdom? That is an entirely different realm. With the union of Vengerberg and Rivia, it will not only secure Vengerberg's future with the joint allies Rivia will no doubt bring with it, and with the Witcher on the throne to protect its pea-headed Princess? I could ask for nothing greater," he sighed wistfully.

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, feeling it tighten. None of this mattered, he reminded himself, if he didn't find someone to take care of Ciri. He would die of insubordination if it meant he could care for Ciri a little bit longer, so she didn't have to suffer here alone.

"Won't feel threatened by a Witcher on the throne?"

"For intelligence? Please, Meve and I have come to an understanding on the matter, and if all you want are my Kingdom's secrets, I will gladly give them all up to see it live through this… trying time," he turned his gaze from Geralt's eye for the first time, and the Witcher saw something else than cool indifference in his gaze.

He wasn't sure if it was true concern over his Kingdom, or simply another ploy to lure him into seducing this 'pea-head'.

Geralt didn't ask. Especially to questions he didn't want to know the answer to.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I know you, White Wolf. Have heard your reputation far and wide. King Killer, Wife Seducer, Creature Slayer. You are many things, but of those things you, are right and just – you look out for those who do not have thrones, if being a Witcher means anything. You are stubborn and you fight for what you believe is right. Of all the candidates for King, I wish to see you on the throne. I simply wanted to tell you, and give you any advice you might want when dealing with our sweet, sweet Yennefer. She is not exactly easy to handle, but that is all part of the fun of the hunt, is it not?"

Geralt shook his head, letting out a strangled chuckled. He planted his face in his hands, scrubbing it, "This must be some weird dream. Thank you… I guess? In fact, I really hate to tell you this since you've been so great to me and all, but I don't even know if I'll be taking the offer to Vengerberg." He allowed the sarcasm of his words to drip in a slow steady, stream.

Yes, he was definitely drunk. Maybe this was all some weird hallucination?

Avallac'h's eyes narrowed, and his lips downturned into a sneer, "You're still not interested? Not… _concerned_ for your country?" Geralt wondered if acting like a petulant child was a common illness in Vengerberg.

"I have other, more important obligations than to babysit some petulant Queen just because you asked me to."

"What could be more important than deciding your Kingdom's future?"

A weak cough made itself known, and Geralt sighed.

"Who was that?" Avallac'h asked, voice sharp and a little nervous as well. No doubt worried about his own elf hide.

"My obligation."

Avallac'h gripped the front of his robes, dreading asking, but… "Your daughter?"

"My ward." His grip loosened, relaxing once again.

"I would not expect you to have a ward."

"I'm not one to leave orphans lying in the street."

"Is she… ill?"

"She's something. Gripped her about five summers ago, she's been stuck in bed ever since," Geralt deflated, feeling powerless against whatever illness had taken the spunk and power away from his once vibrant daughter.

Avallac'h's eyes narrowed dangerously, as if he was coming up with some sort of plan.

Geralt growled at his own stupidity, "If I wasn't so drunk, I wouldn't have told you that."

"Will you… take me up to see her?"

"Are _you_ ill?"

"We are both aware, White Wolf, that you would be capable to kill me with plenty of time to spare if I were to try anything sour. Please, take me to her."

Geralt had to admit, he had weirder nights, but this one was starting to get on his nerves. All he wanted to do was make some tea, go to bed, and deal with his oncoming hangover in _peace._

Was that too much to ask?

Pulling his dagger back out and pointing it very obviously in Avallac'h's direction, Geralt made his way up the stairs, a short hallway, and then to one of the two bedrooms filling the upstairs space.

Walking into the obvious master bedroom, Geralt turned around sharply to make sure Avallac'h wouldn't try anything while his back was turned, to be surprised by the soft expression on his face. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheeks softened immensely when his face wasn't scrunched up in a scowl. Geralt wasn't sure how he felt, knowing that Ciri made this shrewd advisor all… gooey, all of a sudden.

"Geralt?" Ciri's weak voice came, figure frail and pale sitting in the center of the large, down-filled bed. She looked tiny, with all the blankets and furs surrounding her.

"Hello, little swallow," he took her hand in his, and a sweet smile lit up her entire face.

"I was worried you wouldn't come back tonight," she teased gently, before a coughing fit wracked her body violently.

Geralt tightened his grip on her hand.

"I'm alright, sorry," she blushed, a little embarrassed, "Who is with you?"

Geralt saw Avallac'h blanche at her words. She looked in his general direction, but was not looking _at_ him, eyes bright and green and unseeing.

"Avallac'h, advisor of Vengerberg," Geralt responded, eyes glued on the elf.

"Oh, hello, it's nice to meet you," she spoke in Avallac'h's general direction, holding her other hand out for him to take.

Cautiously, he sat on the side of the bed opposite Geralt, taking Ciri's small and gentle hand in his own.

"You do not fear me?" He asked, as if in awe at her innocent, trusting nature, especially considering she could not see this new man before her eyes.

Ciri laughed gently, "If you got past Geralt, then I am sure you do not mean harm," Geralt's heart palpitated.

"What is – what has happened to her?" Avallac'h asked, anxiety in his voice.

"Don't know, 'else I would have tried anything by now to get her better. She's weak, pale, almost constantly cold, and slowly her vision just… faded," Geralt finished in a whisper.

Ciri squeezed his hand, "It's not your fault, Geralt," she smiled up at him, and Avallac'h made a noise of great concern.

"Sounds like a cold. With blindness."

"Wish it was. Not the blindness."

"Miss Ciri, if I may, I would like to try a bit of… magick on you," Geralt immediately tensed, "A simple detection spell, if only to see your current condition."

Ciri bit her lip, her hesitation clear, but nodded her head nonetheless.

A swirl of light escaped Avallac'h's hand, whirling around Ciri's arm and into her chest, circling around her heart in a warm glow. Her eyes widened in awe.

Once the magick was done, Ciri gaped, "Wow! I feel so warm now," the reddening of her cheeks confirmed her statement.

"As I thought," Avallac'h whispered, almost to himself, then turning to Geralt continued, "Her illness is not simply borne of disease. Magick clings to her, making her weak and the vision from her eyes fade. I am… not sure why, or how, only that it is buried deep within. However, it _is_ reversible. A spell that has somehow been twisted for its own doing. Vengerberg is steeped in magick – if she were to come with you, I could look her over and possibly try to find a cure to her ailment."

"You're going to Vengerberg?" Ciri asked.

Geralt snorted, "Yeah, an invitation to become King. Why should I believe you? For all I know this is another ploy to get me to seduce your Princess."

"Please, trust me, this is not something to be taken lightly, I know," Avallac'h's eyes focused on Geralt, something deep and serious in their depths.

"Do you mean, it Avallac'h, I could be cured?" Ciri asked, her voice already starting to become excited at the prospect.

"Now, Ciri, don't get too –"

Geralt saw Avallac'h's grip tighten on Ciri's hand, the strain in his jaw as he looked at her face, into her unseeing eyes. Regret, perhaps?

"I – I do not know, but yours is a unique case. If you would allow me, Miss Ciri, then I would delve into the magick keeping you ill, and to the best of my ability, try to cure you."

Ciri's brow furrowed a bit, and she burrowed further into the mound of blankets and furs surrounding her, no doubt feeling the cold seeping into her once again, "Must I go to Vengerberg for such treatment?"

Geralt looked to Avallac'h again, "Vengerberg is steeped in magick. If there is anything left of Vengerberg, it is its magick. There, I would be sure to find you a cure much easier than if I were to attempt it here."

Ciri smiled gently, "And the Princess is looking to marry? And Geralt is a candidate?"

Avallac'h chuckled, and the sound surprised Geralt immensely. He did not know the elf was capable of feeling _joy._

"Yes, that is correct."

"How romantic a prospect! Then I guess you are going to be King, Geralt!"

If Ciri's wellness was not on the line, and she was not so trusting and free, he would have much rather preferred to sear Avallac'h's ass to a crisp at this point. As it were, he was victim to the women in his life – Queen or otherwise.

He sighed wearily. He knew when he was losing in a fight, or in this case, a war. But, if the elf even had a slimchance of curing whatever was making Ciri so sick, he would have to risk it. It was better than having her cooped up all day, waiting for him to return from his own missions.

"I'll start packing your bags," Geralt grumbled, the fog of drunkenness no longer a pleasant sensation and just a large, annoying nuisance at this point.

Avallac'h smiled, and Geralt wasn't sure if it was genuine or the smile of a lion who won his latest meal.


End file.
